Equilibria
by scroop
Summary: Aunt and Uncle love him, but that's about the only thing Harry has going for him. Caught in an awkward limbo between Gryffindor and Slytherin values, everyone has a reason to hate Harry Potter - and, of course, each other. Harry's just wondering how such a messy society could ever defeat the Dark Lord. Slytherin!Harry: Good Harry and Dark Slytherin.
1. It all seemed perfect

**A/N:** This is a story exploring Snape's horrific past crimes, Draco's flaws, and Slytherin dysfunction. It's all well and good if they're the enemies or if, for whatever reason, Harry never has to live with the reality of their depravity. Actually working with them, though, opens ethical dilemnas that are simply impossible to get right. So conventional morality goes out the window, and Harry's just going to have to wing it all and deal with the consequences of his actions.

* * *

Harry had been killed by Voldemort at the end of his fourth year, betrayed by Marcus Flint.

But instead of dying, he had become a formless wraith, lost, drifting across Britain. He didn't know how that had happened, but he hadn't had a lot of time to question it. And now he was in a cauldron, being resurrected courtesy of Snape - it was all quite overwhelming.

Even more so was his sudden rush of awareness of the past; his life had not flashed before his eyes as he'd died, but apparently it would now.

His four years at Hogwarts had all been varying shades of disaster.

"I wanna withdraw," first-year Harry wailed, pouting in his chair before the Headmaster's desk, kicking his feet angrily in the air.

Dumbledore was looking at Harry with a resigned, perceptive gaze. "I take it you've been having difficulties at school, Harry?"

"Where's Mum," Harry wailed. "I want my mum. You can't keep her away from me, that's -" Harry frowned, trying to remember what had usually worked on the teachers at Muggle schools. "That's against my right! She's my - my legal guardian! I want to see her! She'll tell you - I'm going to withdraw!"

"Harry," said Dumbledore, endlessly patient. "This is a place of magic. As much as I would love the pleasure of meeting Petunia Dursley again, I'm afraid that is not an option for the moment. She would not be able to come here."

"What! What do you mean, she wouldn't be able to -" Harry abandoned his train of thought and promptly switched to a new one. "I hate this school! I hate it! You have to let me withdraw! It's not meeting my, my, educational requirements!" On a roll, Harry's speech came fast. "I have a learning disability and you freaks aren't accommodating it. Everyone in Slytherin hates me because everyone's weird and they don't understand normal kids like me! Snape is -" Harry was searching for the correct words again - "harassing and bullying me and that goes against school code! See! So I'm withdrawing!"

Dumbledore's shoulders stooped slightly as he resigned himself to a long, difficult conversation.

In the end, Harry understood he would not be withdrawing, though the Headmaster's long-winded reasoning entirely escaped him. He felt like he could use the legal keywords that Aunt had taught him in order to poke holes Dumbledore's arguments, if only he understood them.

And Harry had a mentor now, in one Marcus Flint. Marcus Flint greeted him by hauling him up from the Great Hall by the collar of his robes, dragging him into a deserted corridor, and pinning him against a wall.

"I'm to help you ... fit in," Marcus growled, as if he could hardly believe what he was saying.

"What," said Harry flatly.

"You stupid?"

"No, you are," spat Harry. "Aren't you always failing your exams?"

Marcus snarled closer for one moment, pressing Harry's head back into the wall, before he burst into low, rumbling laughter. "And you wonder why you're being bullied, you little idiot."

"Well? Aren't you? Stupid, I mean?"

"At least I don't go crying to the Headmaster for help."

Harry perked up. "Help me escape from this shithole."

He scowled. "Hogwarts is not a shithole."

"Yes it is."

"No it isn't -"

"Fine. If you won't do that, do my homework for me."

"Fuck this," snarled Marcus. "The only reason I'm stuck with you is because Dumbledore doesn't know anyone in our House. But I'm the Quidditch team captain, my name comes to mind! And now I have to mentor little socially suicidal morons!"

And first year had ended quite explosively. He'd been in detention with Snape, as always, when the castle had shuddered and groaned as if in pain; minutes later, Quirrell had burst into the Potions classroom, all trace of his stutter gone. He had said something about not being able to get a stone out of a mirror. Since his body was dying anyway, he reasoned, Quirrell might as well kill the Boy Who Lived, to make things easier for next time...

Harry had barely put two and two together - had barely realized he was staring into the face of _Voldemort_ \- when Snape, instead of paying the requested obeisance, had attacked Quirrell.

And Harry had understood immediately that he was caught right in the middle of a Death Eater power play. As cursed fire and snake conjurations and blinding light filled the small dungeon room, Harry had somehow, in the wild chaos, made it to the Floo hearth and escaped to the Slytherin common room.

First year had been miserable in a way that only magic world could be; Harry had been left bewildered and disoriented, finally realizing how utterly adrift he was in magical society.

Second year was slightly less of a trainwreck, all things considered. It was the year he had pretended to be the Heir of Slytherin. Most of the school despised him for it, but that was nothing new; the important thing was that, at long last, the Slytherins liked him.

At long last, they congratulated him for a good hit in Quidditch.

At long last, they were willing to partner with him in his homework, and the upper years even gave him advice. Harry became fiercely loyal to them because of it.

And in his free time, he and Draco would chase down Neville Longbottom, delighting in the game, like rooting a ferret out of its hole.

"Hey Longbottom!" Draco would call, upon spotting him down the hall. "Where are your friends?"

Neville would try to run, but it would always be fruitless: Draco and Harry knew just how to corner a little runt like him.

"They're in class," Neville tried, his hands trembling.

"Oh, is that what they tell you?" sneered Draco. "If I were them, I'd be thrilled to have an excuse to get away from you once in a while. Think about it, Harry - Longbottom's not even good enough for _Weasley_."

"And look at this," Harry rejoined, spilling out Neville's book bag and holding up a Potions essay triumphantly. "A Troll. Shall I read it out loud, Longbottom?"

Chasing Neville around reminded Harry of the good old days with Dudley, and he began to think that maybe Hogwarts wasn't so bad.

Third year, though, was unparalleled disaster.

Harry had been growing into his Slytherin identity by then. In a fit of cunning brilliance, he'd figured that he didn't have to put up with Snape's harrassment, not when he was the _Heir of Slytherin_ and had such powerful friends as Draco Malfoy. If Dumbledore wouldn't do anything, thought Harry Slytherinly, he would go to the Board of Governors.

At the meeting, Lucius Malfoy sat back in his chair, and though his speech was humble and reasonable, his eyes gleamed as if he owned the room. He twisted his wrist delicately in the air as he spoke. "And so, Mr. Potter, you say that you previously approached Dumbledore twice - and that both times, he completely dismissed your concerns, despite the obvious unfairness of your treatment at Professor Snape's hands?"

Harry nodded.

Lucius addressed the board. "We have been complacent about Dumbledore's ineptitude for far too long. Last year, two students were Petrified on his watch, yet he did nothing. Yet it is not only the well-being of the Muggleborns that he disregards; he is ignoring the legitimate concerns and needs of the Boy-Who-Lived, who, for his services to our world, deserves at the very least a normal experience at school."

None of the later arguments had really mattered. By vote, Dumbledore was sacked. Every ounce of blame had been laid on him, and there was none left for Snape; and so Snape was pardoned.

Dumbledore had been understanding beyond belief. "Things are rarely ever as permanent or as terrible as they seem at first," he said. "Minerva will make a wonderful Headmistress. The school is not lost yet."

Dumbledore's forgiveness, however, had seemed to melt away in the face of Snape's demented rage. That Harry spent the rest of the year genuinely fearing for his life said enough about that encounter: and so began the Year of the Invisibility Cloak.

And in the Shrieking Shack on the night of the full moon, caught right between Snape and transforming werewolf-Lupin, Harry had run towards Lupin. Because werewolves couldn't be that bad, right, but Snape was certainly out to kill him...

Snape saved him, of course.

And then there had been Harry's fourth year, which had been defined most of all by his murder at Voldemort's hands.

Ah - There was a sudden jerk in Harry's consciousness, as if it had just been anchored into the whirling cauldron.

Harry had died, but this was his hope. All thoughts fled him now, and he knew only of the whirling liquid. The moment seemed to suspend; if he had a heart, it would have halted.

Then there was pain.

His skin was searing, boiling water roiling over every inch of his skin. His lungs were flat and burned with the need for air, but he didn't know which way was up, and he jerked forward in panic only to slam his foot into the inside of the cauldron.

Then someone was pulling him sharply up. His skin made contact with cool air but his muscles were not working; the minute the support was removed, he flopped to the dungeon floor, gasping like a stranded fish, thinking wildly that Voldemort had been far more graceful about this.

But he was alive.

Snape had stepped back and conjured robes over him, the lingering hot water soaking into the fabric. Harry saw his own hand in front of him, an angry red, steaming slightly.

Alive.

After he was confident his muscles would work again, Harry stood, wobbling only slightly.

"Harry?" breathed Snape, so quiet under the bubbling of the cauldron behind.

"Professor?"

All at once Snape's eyes flooded with ineffable relief, as if Harry's survival had mattered more than anything else in his life.

Harry had no response but to hug him, noticing Snape go stiff as a board but not really caring. Snape nearly collapsed into the nearest chair when Harry pulled away, but Harry's attention was captured by the room at large. He began to walk, then prance, then skip - literally skip - around the classroom, because he was alive, he was _alive_ \- because his story had not yet ended.

And it felt as if something had jarred in his brain, pushing things more or less into alignment, where before Harry had been blind. He had been a complete prat all his life, which was all well and good, but when Voldemort had already killed him, he just couldn't see the world in quite the same light.

It was time to stop being a prat. Voldemort was trying to tear down the world. Harry didn't want that to happen.

* * *

The next week was a whirlwind of activity. Dumbledore dodged his questions, paraded him in front of international media, then sent him back to Grimmauld Place.

The Order looked at Harry as if he were Christ himself. Moody touched his shoulder, then touched all over his face, as if he couldn't believe Harry was real. Sirius hugged him so hard he could barely breathe. Hermione's eyes were positively alight as she queried him endlessly about what it had been like to be an incorporeal wraith - and, her face suddenly becoming sombre, what it had been like to die.

Harry couldn't come up with a good answer to that.

To his utter relief, Aunt and Uncle had never been told of Harry's death. He was normally irritated at how much Aunt and Uncle were kept out of the loop, but this time, he was beyond grateful. Aunt berated him for disappearing for a couple days, and then Harry was allowed to return to his room. The normality of it all made his breath catch in wonder.

And on that first day of his new life, Draco visited.

Draco was an absolute mess. He all but collapsed onto Harry the minute he saw him, sobbing, clutching at Harry's Muggle clothes. "I can't believe you're alive," he whispered, "you're alive, you're _alive_... how?"

It was a rhetorical, existential question. Harry didn't answer, just stumbled back, touched and surprised at Draco's show of emotion. He clung onto Harry as if a lifeline, and it was a long time before he detached himself and sunk gracelessly onto Harry's bed, as limp as a ragdoll.

Harry watched him carefully. This behavior was so unexpected of him - but then, in the last few days, no one had behaved as expected. The world was turning upside down.

Harry felt a sudden flood of gratitude for Draco, his friend in his last life and in this one. Harry did not know why, but that meant a lot. "You all right?" said Harry quietly.

Draco shuddered, taking in a deep breath, but otherwise not moving a muscle, lying on his face in Harry's covers. "I betrayed them," he said, his voice shaking.

Harry spoke very carefully. "Betrayed who?"

"My parents."

Silence met that answer; Harry was frozen, staring. He had hoped for this for so long, yet could hardly believe it. Had his death and resurrection created a paradigm shift for others, too? Could he dare hope...?

"What do you mean?" Harry said, swallowing.

"I mean that - the way the Dark Lord put you on display... the way he tortured you, Harry, I just - I just can't -" Draco hesitated and trailed into silence.

"What happened?" said Harry quietly. "Dumbledore didn't really tell me anything."

"It was -" Draco's breath hitched. "Everyone was shouting after Marcus Apparated you away. It wasn't him, he didn't mean it -"

"What do you mean, it wasn't him?"

"He was under the Imperius," Draco breathed, closing his eyes into the covers. "You know how he failed his test last year? Couldn't graduate? Well, he got desperate - he asked Gemma to Imperius him, for the tests only, so that he could pass. Only Gemma didn't let up the Imperius after the tests were over, and..."

The breath went out of Harry's lungs; he sunk in relief. So it hadn't been Marcus. Of course it hadn't been.

"And then the Dark Lord," continued Draco, his eyes still closed, "he put your body out on display, for all the world to see, the day he took control of the Ministry. Harry, you - you didn't even look human, you just looked like broken meat and bone, as if he was trying to carve you up for a butcher shop..." Draco was rambling now, his breath unsteady again. "I can't ... can't handle that, Harry. And I'm sorry for the last year. I was trying to distance myself from you because Father said so -"

"I know. Don't worry about it -"

"I was trying to distance myself, Harry, but that was..." Draco trailed off, finally lifting himself off the covers, his eyes full of confusion. "I don't know, Harry, I don't know, I just know that I can't support that. I just left my manor, and I'm... I'm not going back." His voice dropped to a whisper. "Ever.

"And I'm sorry I was such a prick," continued Draco, before Harry could respond. "If you want to be Seeker, you can be Seeker now, and I'll take Beater."

Harry closed his eyes, trying valiantly to steady his voice. "It's all right," he said - his voice cracked despite himself. "I like Beater."

Draco's eyes suddenly glazed over. "I can't believe you're alive," he said dully.

* * *

Even Ron and Hermione had changed. They had been the worst of enemies ever since first year, but now they at least spoke to him, rather than hexed him outright.

"Just because you had interesting information on resurrections doesn't mean we're friends," Hermione said coolly. "You're still a cruel, bullying -"

Harry apologized, apologized for everything: For hounding Ginny and Ron so viciously as a Beater, sending them both multiple times to the Infirmary; for mocking Hermione's teeth and burning her homework on multiple occasions; most of all, for hounding Neville.

He meant it, with a ferocity that nearly brought tears to his eyes. He didn't know exactly why he felt so strongly; he only knew that something about being resurrected had changed the way the world looked.

But at mention of Neville, Hermione's lips thinned. "No amount of saying you're sorry is going to take away what you did to Neville. He was terrified of walking down the halls because of you. He was crying, all the time, and he never told us how we could help because he was so ashamed."

"It was wrong," said Harry quietly. It was the only thing he could say.

Something in Hermione's eyes softened.

"This is loony-" started Ron.

She turned to him, sighing, finally moved by Harry's detailed acknowledgements of guilt and his profuse apologies. "Look, Ron," she implored, "Maybe dying and coming back to life really does change a person. I mean, this is Potter. Did you really ever expect him to come up and apologize like this?"

"Well, no -"

"I'm not giving him a carte blanche, but maybe we can give him just a chance." Her eyes narrowed. "If you're lying, Potter..."

Harry shook his head, and she gave him a slow little smile.

And so, over the course of the summer, Hermione told him a little bit about what the Order was doing. She was frosty at first, but their conversations gradually became easier and easier.

"Voldemort's reappeared," she said. "We're still not sure why he suddenly went missing after your resurrection..."

It had been in order to nullify the effect of Harry's blood in Voldemort's veins, without a doubt. If Voldemort was active now, the procedure must have been successful - if Harry died again, he'd die for good.

"Anyway," said Hermione, "Voldemort's in a weaker position than he'd prefer now. The Quibbler and international news outlets all reported your continuing survival."

Ron piped in. "So Voldemort looks a bit stupid for declaring you dead only for you to actually be alive. He's going to look even more stupid when you start attending Hogwarts again, and everyone can see for themselves that you're the real deal."

"But Voldemort doesn't know if Harry's alive for sure," said Hermione, "so in the meanwhile, the Order thinks he's is planning a full-out attack on Gringotts. He wants to have the Wizarding banking system under his control -" Hermione thinned her lips in disapproval - "rather the control of magical creatures."

"So if he manages that," said Harry, "Voldemort will basically control all of Wizarding Britain, besides Hogwarts."

"Hogwarts won't fall," said Ron. "It's too old for that. I think the teachers have been working on the defensive enchantments all summer, too." He grinned. "And besides, once you're confirmed to be alive... Mate, I'd give a lot to see the look on Voldemort's face when he finds out it's a sure thing."

"I'm only one person," Harry reminded him. He was a symbol of hope, maybe, but that wouldn't do much good if Hogwarts fell.

The rest of the summer passed quietly. The world outside seemed to be a maelstrom of conflict as Dumbledore tried to undermine Voldemort's ministry, Voldemort tried to tear down Gringotts' defenses, and various other groups scuffled for influence, nobody really knowing who had the upper hand. Grimmauld Place, though, was peaceful.

Hogwarts would not be.

* * *

On the train ride to Hogwarts, Harry was instantly engulfed in a crowd.

"Bloody hell, it's actually you!" cried Edgar, shoving through the crowd of Slytherins who had crammed themselves into his compartment. "And here I thought it was just a stunt of Dumbledore's, and we'd just lost our greatest Beater of all time, and before you even had a chance to phase in a replacement. That would've been a shame!"

"Your Patronus," Tracey was demanding, peeking over Lucas's shoulder. "Cast your Patronus!"

Rather amused by all the attention, Harry did so, displaying the tiny one-inch frog glowing in his hand.

There were gasps at this.

And then, after a moment of silence came the flood of exclamations, declarations of affection, and cries of relief, everyone competing to speak louder than their neighbors. With everyone crammed into the tiny space, pushing each other and shouting, Harry was sure someone would mistake this for the Gryffindor compartment.

And then Draco pulled Harry to his feet, and there was an awkward group hug that they really should've left to the Hufflepuffs. Harry was jostled around as if he'd just won the Quidditch World Cup, and for the rest of the train ride, he was bombarded by questions of _how'd he survive_.

"Well, clearly the Dark Lord's gone a bit mad," said Tracey reasonably. Half the compartment hissed at her for the blasphemy; the other half seemed to privately agree. She ignored them all. "I mean, you're obviously immune to the Killing Curse. Did he not figure that out the first time?"

"Immune to the Killing Curse?" demanded Draco, his cheeks flushing. "You saw his body splayed out in front of the gates of Hogwarts! We all saw it! He was dead, dead, _dead_ -"

Daphne patted Draco's shoulder awkwardly, imploring him to calm down.

"Well," said Edgar, flashing a grin. "Us poor souls shall never know his mysterious powers, Heir of Slytherin and the Boy Who Lived Again." Edgar leaned in conspiratorially. "So, now that you're an international beacon of hope, d'you think you can get us a Quidditch commentator who's a little more, y'know, pro-Slytherin?"

When they went into the Great Hall, Harry couldn't see much of the student body; he was surrounded by a cluster his Housemates.

They chattered around him, but they seemed oddly defensive. They sat down as one, with him in the middle, and as the Sorting began, they traded whispers as usual.

Harry glanced around at the Great Hall. People at all tables were staring at him unabashedly, but they had done so when he'd declared himself the Heir of Slytherin, and later after he'd been responsible for Dumbledore's sacking. With only a mild twinge of unease, Harry ignored them and focused on the conversations around him.

"Is it going to be bad?" mouthed Aston to Daphne, his eyes darting nervously.

She was dismissive; she barely looked at him as she replied. "Are you blind? If they pick a fight with us, they pick a fight with Harry here. Even McLaggen wouldn't do that, not now." She rolled her eyes at the idea and turned to Draco. "How's your summer been? And is it true, were you really not at Malfoy Manor? I heard no one could find you..."

"Hey, shove off," said a low voice behind him. "Go sit next to Pansy or something..."

It wasn't directed at him. On his left, Aston slunk guiltily from his seat, and Flora Carrow took his place, facing Harry with a businesslike air.

Harry couldn't help but do a double-take. All summer, he'd been hearing about how involved Amycus and Alecto Carrow had been in Voldemort's various raids. Many of the other Slytherins had Death Eater connections, but none so close nor so prolific as Flora's.

"Not you too," she said shortly, reading his look.

"Er, I mean -"

Flora sighed. "Well, I've had to explain this to Theo and Aston too -" her disparaging smirk made it clear just what she thought of them - "so I guess I'll explain it to you, too, double Boy Who Lived." She spoke very slowly. "Hogwarts is a safe place. Have you seen the way McGonagall and her Auror cronies have locked every single entrance and exit besides the main one?"

"Sure." Dumbledore had told him about that.

"And there's also these rumors -" Harry glanced away guiltily as Flora spoke - "of a magical map that McGonagall has, which shows the location of every person in the castle."

"Mmm," said Harry vaguely.

"And since I've arrived," continued Flora, with a grandiose wave of her hands, "I've counted about ten random Aurors patrolling the halls. So. The jist of it is that no one is going to get murdered or kidnapped from this place - not you, because you're their poster boy, and not us, because Gryffindors are just too goody-two-shoes for that sort of thing. So I'm safe here. And I'm bloody well going to be here, building my connections with all and sundry, until I have to graduate. Satisfied?"

"So do you disagree with what Amycus and Alecto are doing? Because -"

"Stop going off on a tangent." She tapped her prefect's badge importantly. "For planning purposes, I wanted to know whether you're doing anything this year or not."

"Doing anything?"

"For the House," said Flora disparagingly. "Supervising the first years, what have you. Now, I know you're influential enough, being immune to the Killing Curse and all. But this is still a great opportunity to make yourself useful the little firsties -" she glanced at the kids, who were still being sorted - "up and rising stars, and all that. Maybe they'll remember you once they graduate and give you a leg up -"

"Flora," said Harry dryly, "have you mistaken _me_ for a firstie? Death didn't make me stupid."

She didn't break her stride. "Well, I was just making sure you're aware of the benefits, seeing as you can be a bit daft sometimes. So? What's your answer?"

Harry would do it, of course. Connecting with his House was important, even more so now. "I'll supervise brewing up to the fourth-years."

Flora gave a half-snigger. "I mean, you could try, but no one would trust you. We all know you got a Dreadful last year. When you posted your transcript, Snape was really very clear with the D, all bolded and in a block script, so that we couldn't possibly mistake it for a P."

Harry felt a twinge of annoyance. "That grade wasn't my fault. Snape always fails me, it's not a reflection of my skill, and -"

"Forgive us if we take a Potions master's word over yours." Flora leaned thoughtfully against the table. "Your options are a bit narrow, considering your grades. You could supervise firstie Charms or Defense. They'd be grateful."

"I'll think about it," said Harry, "but really, my Potions grades -"

He didn't have a chance to elaborate. The Sorting had ended, and Harry was vaguely aware of the Slytherins welcoming their last firstie to the table as McGonagall stood to the Headmistress's podium.

Last year, her beginning of the year speech had briskly addressed the school rules before sending the students off to bed. This time, however, there was an uneasy anticipation that it would be different; Voldemort had taken over the Ministry, after all, and the boy who had survived him not once but twice was sitting in their midst.

"Students," she said, surveying all of them, "I have conferred with the erstwhile Headmaster Dumbledore, as well as those friends and allies who support us in the fight for peace in the Wizarding World. It is of our opinion that the Ministry is no longer a reliable edifice of authority." Murmurs spread among the Hufflepuffs. "And I am therefore removing Hogwarts from its control and influence. As of now, Hogwarts shall answer to no decrees nor ordinances from the Ministry, and we shall maintain our independence until such a time as the integrity of the Ministry is restored."

She elaborated on the theory that Pius Thicknesse was acting under a Death Eater's Imperius Curse, but there was muttering among the crowd. The Hufflepuffs were glancing amongst themselves now, worried. The Ravenclaws whispered to each other, debating this or that aspect of McGonagall's theory.

The Slytherins ignored McGonagall entirely, caring only about her political stance, but not the justification behind it. They smirked at each other, their expressions reading _I told you so_ , and some of them seemed to shift closer to Harry, their first and best defense in what might soon become a more hostile environment.

This was not so bad, thought Harry. There might not be strong unity behind McGonagall's stance, but there was at least acquiescence, though it took different forms among the Houses. Maybe they could hold Hogwarts, and then...

Maybe, eventually, they'd even win the war.

* * *

 **A/N:** I'm grateful for any feedback or discussion/comments you'd care to share! Update schedule should be weekly at most.


	2. Mirage

Harry was glad to be back in the Slytherin dorms.

Over the summer, Aunt had recommenced her annual project to normalize him. This summer, it had involved banning Harry from using the Floo hearth and shooing him outside with Dudley instead. He was supposed to bond with his adoptive brother, apparently, so that he could "get his head out of that freakishness and remember that the _real_ world exists."

The only problem was that Dudley had reliably ditched him as fast as possible, leaving him very much alone in the streets of Surrey. He hadn't minded - Grimmauld Place was only a spin and an Apparition away - but it had been a rather odd daily routine.

Now he was back among magic, the covers soft, the lake murmuring in the background. It was a relief.

And Draco, apparently, was up early writing. He was sitting on his bed, back to the wall, crouched over a hoard of letters. Harry could make out the headers: _Dear Father_ on one; no salutation on another, which simply began with, _Do you think I should..._

Harry's stomach sunk. He had been so hopeful, but...

"I thought you weren't supporting the Dark Lord anymore," said Harry quietly.

Draco started a bit, then returned to his current letter, making no move to hide the papers around him. His response was haughty. "I'm not."

The silence stretched on. Harry tried to read more of the letters, but he couldn't make out any of the paragraphs.

"What," said Draco, glancing up. "Are you going to tell me I can't send letters to my own father?"

"You seemed so appalled at him," Harry said simply. Draco had been incoherent with terror and relief the day after Harry's resurrection. Had that meant nothing?

"Stop gawking at me," Draco said mulishly.

Harry sighed, falling back onto his bed and staring up at the ceiling, flickering with lake-light. Lucius Malfoy was as involved in Voldemort's Ministry as ever, and he highly doubted Draco was going to convince his father to switch sides. The other way around was far more likely, judging by the way Draco had always followed his father's orders. "Are you just talking about... personal things, then?" Harry tried.

"Sure," said Draco dryly. "I'm telling him all about how good the pudding was last night."

The sound of their voices had woken Blaise. "By Merlin, Draco," he drawled, face down on a pillow. "Still here? No hour-long shower this morning?"

Harry tried to tear his mind from Draco's letters. He'd give him the benefit of the doubt; surely the letters meant nothing.

Breakfast that morning saw more stares directed at him, and a gaggle of Hufflepuffs crept up shyly, wanting to get a closer look at Harry. He let them hover over his shoulder as he ate, ignoring them, though their commentary was a bit unnerving. ("I told you he's not a ghost!")

The Hufflepuffs eventually drifted away, and Harry wondered at the odd ordinariness of breakfast, with its cheerful murmur and the clinking of silverware on plates. The Wizarding World was accepting his revival.

The fact that Dumbledore had been deliberately vague about what had happened - and the fact that, when pressed, he took credit for the resurrection instead of Snape - had probably gone a great deal towards easing everyone's minds. No one seemed to believe he was some demonic, Necromantic construct.

Good.

But Potions was a bit of a surprise. "Where's Snape?" murmured Harry, as he and Draco watched McGonagall write the steps for the Wiggenwald potion on the board.

"Why're you asking me?" said Draco. "You're the one who spent all summer hanging out with McGonagall's group of Aurors and ex-convicts."

"Well, Snape wasn't there."

Draco seemed quite disappointed at the lack of entertainment Snape usually provided. McGonagall was horrendously fair, and, as if to make up for it, Harry saw Draco eyeing Longbottom speculatively throughout the class, trying to find some creative way to sabotage his potion.

"Don't," Harry warned, sniffing at the fumes above the cauldron. Then he lost himself in the brewing and promptly forgot about it, right until a shrivelfig flew in front of his vision and landed with a wet plop in Longbottom's cauldron.

Harry hissed in sudden irritation. " _Draco_!"

"What?"

"Can't you just knock it off?"

Draco glanced in concern at Harry's cauldron. "Did I break your concentration?"

McGonagall strode over to Longbottom's cauldron, conferring with him in a low voice as he gestured helplessly to his now-smoking potion. Longbottom was flailing his arms in a panic; he seemed to think he had done something wrong. Draco was sniggering at this, but when McGonagall demanded answers, his face snapped into an expression of the most earnest politeness. When she turned away, he looked back smirked conspiratorially. The other Slytherins might have grinned or nodded in response, promising to keep their silence, but Harry only finished cutting his dragon liver with sharp, angry jabs.

"Draco," said Harry sharply after class, "you and Longbottom are on the same side now. Knock it off."

Draco's eyebrows had raised to his hairline in utter disbelief. " _Same side_?" Around him, the Slytherins exiting the class were turning to watch the conversation. "I don't care if we're on the same side," cried Draco, "he's a complete dimwit! Unless he's grown a spine and a brain over the summer?" Draco frowned. "Has he?"

"I don't know, but -"

"What do you mean, you don't know." Draco leaned towards him. "You're defending him. You are defending Longbottom, Harry. So come on, tell me what happened."

"Oh, I don't know," said Harry irritably, "maybe a war broke out? Maybe that's what happened?"

The others were watching unabashedly now, blocking traffic in the corridor.

Draco scoffed. "So the war's made Longbottom a Messiah?"

"No, but I think it ought to change our priorities a bit! Spend your time honing your dueling skills, or polishing your wand, even - but not hounding him."

Draco was giving him the strangest look. "What in God's name is your problem? Did you get reSorted into Hufflepuff when you died?" And jutting his chin in the air, Draco strode off, his shoes clicking sharply on the stone floors.

Harry stared after him, his stomach sinking.

When Harry found him later at lunch, Draco was still frosty. "Tell me when you're done with this model-Gryffindor act," he said coldly, before turning away and striking up a conversation with Daphne.

"Yeah, what's going on?" said Blaise offhandedly. "Fancy the Mudblood? Trying to impress her?"

Though the Slytherins' distance disturbed him, classes were going well. Harry was passing a Potions class for the first time in his existence, which pleased him extraordinarily. McGonagall was definitely better at Transfiguration than at Potions, but as long as she was grading him fairly, he was not complaining.

And teaching quality across all classes was quite high. Last year, they'd been stuck with an incompetent Ministry employee for a Transfiguration professor. After Hogwarts's declaration of independence, the Ministry man had been instantly fired, and now the subject was taught by Emmeline Vance, a moderate Slytherin and an Auror for the Order. After Moody's re-retirement, the Defense post had been filled by Hestia Jones, who seemed to have a very decent grasp of the subject with a lot less madness thrown into the mix.

But as for his House, Harry simply could not get along with them, and he was beginning to find it disturbing that he ever had. They committed little acts of cruelty without a second thought - tripping Gryffindors in the halls, whispering insults in their ears - and Harry couldn't believe they didn't realize what they were doing. He called them out on it. At first, they put up with his moral objections with an indulgent air, but as Harry persisted, trying to make them understand, they grew slightly brittle.

Harry would succeed eventually, he thought. They _were_ his friends.

"I love how Hogwarts has just _seceded from Britain_ ," Edgar was saying with a grin, as a group of them walked down the halls. "The founders would be rolling over in their graves. Salazar Slytherin especially. I think we should stage a coup."

"We've seceded from Britain?" echoed Tracey. "That's an exaggeration."

"What else would you call a total rejection of the government?" said Edgar.

"But really, Edgar, a coup?" said Daphne sweetly. "Our Head of House is mysteriously missing, and dear Harry seems to be having a crisis of conscience. Not a good time to make a move, unless we want to get murdered by McGonagall's Aurors."

Theo cut in, sounding worried. "So where is Snape, anyway?"

Tracey gave an off-handed wave. "Oh, he's coming back. Or else they'd already have made Vance our new Head of House."

Aston's face twisted in disgust. "Oh, God no."

There was general agreement with that sentiment. "Vance is so deep in McGonagall's pocket it's disgusting," agreed Blaise. "She's no Slytherin."

"Who are all these Aurors, anyway?" wondered Daphne.

"They're Dumbledore's people, veterans from the last war," said Pansy, breaking away from the small group ahead to join their conversation. "And - surprise, surprise! - nearly all Gryffindor."

"I feel tragically underrepresented," Edgar declared. "Snape needs to get back here. And Harry, can you get over your Resurrection Syndrome just a tad faster?" He tried to give Harry a playful rap on the head, which Harry dodged. "We need you."

* * *

A much-needed update on Order activities came in the form of a letter from Sirius. Harry had never received one from him before; they'd never gotten along, regularly getting into fights about James and Lily. Sirius seemed to think of them as paragons of perfection, which drove Harry up the wall; his biological parents had been self-centered jerks who had treated Aunt and Uncle terribly. So at the time of Harry's death, he and Sirius had barely been on speaking terms.

But now, all that seemed to be put behind them. Sirius wrote eagerly as if they had always been the best of friends.

D _ear Harry,_

 _Things are getting crazy. Voldemort definitely seems a off-balance. When he took control of the Ministry, he didn't expect any resistance, thinking he'd taken care of you. Thank Merlin's beard he was wrong._

 _Still, he does control the Ministry. We think he's used his power to recruit an entire horde of enchantment-breakers in preparation for the attack on Gringotts. We're working with the goblins - though, trying to talk to them, you'd think we were mortal enemies. But I haven't seen Dumbledore at all since the start of summer. Have you?_

 _But one great thing about the Ministry's fall is that we can break all the laws we want. I know what you're thinking, but I'm not doing anything bad. It's just nice to finally be able to leave Grimmauld Place._

 _Write back, and let me know if there's anything unusual._

 _Sirius_

Harry penned a reasonably friendly reply. If Sirius was making an effort, so could he. Hopefully there would be an unspoken understanding now that they wouldn't talk about James and Lily nor about which Hogwarts House was best.

And as for the spectre of Voldemort's rise, Harry was certainly worried. Voldemort was an aberration upon humanity: there was no doubt in Harry's mind upon that fact. He only had to look back and remember those cold red eyes until his gut was twisting and bile was rising in his throat.

Yet what could he do about it? He, who was barely scraping by in his classes - he, who was still disoriented and bewildered by the magical world... Even if he trained for ten years, he wouldn't be able to lift a candle to the Dark Lord's skill.

* * *

Later that day, after receiving their Potions grades back from McGonagall, Harry went off in search of Flora. Snape had been missing for two months now. He thought their relationship might be better - after all, Snape had looked so relieved when Harry had revived - but since he couldn't be sure, he was selfishly glad that Snape was gone. He wanted this string of good Potions grades to last.

Anyway, Snape had to be fine, right?

"Flora!" Harry called, sliding into the seat next to her. "Screw you." He spread out the last five Potions grades he'd received in front of her, announcing as she looked at them, "I'm supervising the lower forms' Potions practice."

She raised an eyebrow at him, looking up from the papers. "Well, you don't need to ask me for permission. Post your grades and your supervising hours on the bulletin, and maybe with your grades, people will come."

"Yeah, but I wanted to prove you wrong," said Harry, smirking. "Look at these comments! And from McGonagall no less! She's never seen a better Wiggenwald potion -"

Flora rolled her eyes. "Alright, Harry. Wrong I am proven. Good job and go away."

Grinning, Harry took his leave and headed to the common room to make the arrangements.

And then, feeling a tad guilty, he went to McGonagall's office to ask about Snape's absence. He was promptly told that it was "Order business, Mr. Potter," and then Harry felt much better about putting it out of his mind. If Snape had died, he doubted McGonagall would have termed that Order business.

* * *

Another month passed, and soon it was late fall, the first snows dusting the ground.

And in Slytherin, though he participated in his House affairs, tension still lingered. According to them, Harry still had not gotten over his Resurrection Syndrome, what they termed his change of heart.

Harry knew he never would.

But they were getting impatient; what had previously been playful ribbing was now turning into urgent demands that Harry get over himself and get that stick out of his arse.

"Hey Draco," Edgar murmured, walking jauntily into the common room one evening. "I have a surprise for you! I put the Weasley girl in the Infirmary."

A crease appeared between Draco's eyebrows. He looked up from his book. "Thanks, that's nice. But do you think I can't lead us to victory by myself?"

"Nah," said Edgar, patting him on the shoulder, "I'm saying there's a lot more to victory than the Quidditch field. It's total war! You should be thrilled - their reserve Seeker is so horrible it hurts my eyes to watch him fly."

Harry felt a spike of irritation. "What did you do to Ginny Weasley?"

Edgar raised his eyebrows. "What, I didn't do anything! How could you insinuate that!" He grinned. "Maybe her knee spontaneously shattered."

Draco was smirking, leaning back in his armchair with a superior air. "I'm not surprised. Those Weasley kids are starved at home, they're so poor. No wonder their bones are so weak."

And all at once, Harry snapped. His irritation with his House's violent ways had only been building, and he could no longer hold back his anger.

"You don't understand what you're doing, Edgar," spat Harry, rising from his seat. "You think that you can hurt people as much as you want, and it won't ever get bad, because the rules will stop you ? Those rules are flimsy. Fake. They'll break. You're going to hurt and hurt and hurt your victims, and one of these days McGonagall won't be around to stop you. Before you know it, you'll have killed."

Harry was an inch away from Edgar now. His breath came shakily, fraught with tension. "I'm sure you saw my body out there after the Dark Lord killed me. I've heard I looked terrible, after I broke all my bones under the Cruciatus, after they sliced my muscles to shreds so I couldn't even move. Watch out, Edgar! Because there's no real difference between what you just did to Ginny Weasley and what the Dark Lord did to me! If you don't knock it off, right now, you're going to become _just like him_."

The common room was silent. His housemates were watching him, their eyes forbidding and cold in the green dungeon light.

He was desperate for them to understand. "That applies to all of you!" he shouted at the room at large, before whirling and stalking out the portrait and into the halls.

The next morning, no one spoke to him. They talked among themselves as they dressed and brushed their teeth, walking around him as if he were a statue.

But that was fine, Harry thought stubbornly. He was the Boy Who Lived, then the Boy Who Lived Again and, to top it off, the (fake) Heir of Slytherin. For once, those false titles might be useful for something. They'd just have to deal with him, and one day he'd make them come around. They couldn't live like this forever.

Yet at breakfast, Harry was surrounded by a bubble of space and silence. Tracey was the only one who seemed unaffected; she sat across from him, chatting cheerfully with Theo about Quidditch, while the rest of the students around them ate tersely.

"I wish I had money for a new broom," Tracey was saying, as Theo nodded along. "The acceleration of the Firebolt Supreme..."

"Tell me this is just an act, Harry," hissed Draco, leaning close. "Tell me you're just trying to suck up to McGonagall, or that it's all part of a strategy of distancing yourself from us, crafting a persona that appeals to all of the Houses. Tell me -"

Harry suppressed his spike of anger. "The Dark Lord killed me. I'm not playing around anymore."

Silence from Draco. Harry stared at his food, listening in the back of his mind to Tracey's broom analysis. It was soothing, somehow, a reminder of how normal things should be, if they could just understand that what they were doing was wrong.

"So what now?" said Aston waspishly. "Are you going to decide that hitting people with a Bludger is bad? Are you going to give up your bat and fly around like a dove during our next match?"

"That's different," said Harry, feeling a faint stir of hope. Maybe this explanation would hit home. "On the Quidditch field, they've all agreed to the risk. But attacking people in the halls -"

"Shut up," said Blaise. "I'm trying to eat, not listen to a sermon."

"I'm not going to shut up," said Harry, his anger rising again. "Don't you see -"

Blaise met his gaze, and Harry was startled into silence by the cold resentment in his eyes.

"You can shut up, or I'll just cast a _Muffliato_ on myself," said Blaise.

"And with Gringotts going down," Tracey was saying, "you never know what might happen to the banking system..."

After a long, tense silence, Blaise tore his gaze away from Harry and returned to his porridge. Harry didn't know why, but something in that gaze made Harry feel ill. These were his friends! Why couldn't they just...?

That evening, Harry left his homework out on the Slytherin common room table for a quick bathroom break. When he returned, it was a pile of ashes. His Housemates watched him coldly, amusement flickering in some of their eyes, yet none of them volunteered any information nor even deigned to speak to him.

But, staring at the pile of ashes, Harry could not muster any indignation. His anger was worn out, replaced only with resignation. He still distinctly remembered his experience as a wraith: the detached awe of floating across the great forests of Britain, dancing for a time among fairies and unicorns, until he resumed his journey back to Hogwarts.

That was what the world had to offer.

And now he was dealing with this: these petty bullies, this little pile of ashes. He couldn't care less about the loss of his homework. He did care that this is what his friends had seen fit to do.

"Welcome to the club," Ron proclaimed, after Harry explained to a reluctantly curious Hermione why he didn't have an essay. "I should've known you were alright, seeing as Snape's been hating you since day one."

Ron had no right to be impressed. Harry just stared at him. "You shouldn't be happy that the Slytherins are petty. Someday, you'll be fighting alongside them."

But Ron and Hermione did not share his resignation. To them, the Slytherins were showing their true colors, and they were happy Harry had finally seen the truth.

"Go talk to Flitwick," urged Hermione. "Tell him what happened. He'll understand."

Harry shook his head. "I don't really care about the homework."

"Harry..."

He forced a smile on his face. "Look," he said indulgently, "I did all the work, so I learned all the material already. That's what counts."

Ron was smirking in approval.

"Harry!" cried Hermione. "You have to get good grades. Our OWLs are this year -"

"But there won't be OWLs, right?" said Ron, repressing his mirth. "There's no Ministry meddling anymore."

Hermione's face tightened in disapproval. "There'll be a replacement test, which will be just as important -"

Harry was laughing now at the sheer ridiculousness of this argument. It was a welcome distraction from his friends' betrayal. "But the replacements won't have the same legitimacy as Ministry-officiated OWLs," said Harry charmingly. "So they won't matter as much."

"And, since we have no idea what they're preparing, there's not much use studying ahead of time," finished Ron.

"I fully approve," said Harry.

"But -" began Hermione, her eyes darting from side to side.

Ron and Harry shared a grin.

* * *

And so, in a twist of fate Harry would never have expected when he was younger, he began spending the majority of his time among Gryffindors.

And, soon enough, he was on good terms with the Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws as well. They seemed to take his inter-House relations as a good sign, and whereas before they had acted a bit distantly towards him, now they were friendly.

This had never happened before. It didn't take the sting off the betrayal of Harry's true friends, but it helped.

And then, suddenly, Snape was back.

He offered absolutely no explanation for his now three-month absence. He was simply up at the front of the Potions classroom one day, and the confused murmuring that had broken out had been immediately quelled with a glare.

Had Snape's hair always been that greasy? Harry wondered. It had always been quite bad, but now the strands were literally clinging to his temple and neck, as if he had poured a gallon of oil over his head.

But other than that, he looked normal - there was nothing to indicate what he may have been doing for the Order while he'd been gone.

"Though the quality of your education may have suffered in my absence," Snape was saying, pacing before the board, "I shall not be pleased if any of you attempt to use it as an excuse for your abject failures. Moronic as much of this class undoubtedly is, each of you shall scrape at least an Acceptable on the HAREs, or suffer my... displeasure."

And class went on as usual, with Snape dourly outlining the requirements of the Draught of Peace as if he had never been gone. Having no more information, Harry gave up on guessing the reason of Snape's absence.

It to Harry's great annoyance that, at the end of class, Snape broke his string of Outstandings by grading his near-perfectpotion at a Poor. Harry forced himself to ignore it as he turned away - his Potions grades were a matter of pride, really, but they didn't actually matter.

"Stay after class, Potter," said Snape, and Harry halted. After everyone else had left, Harry found himself standing alone in front of the teacher's desk as Snape reclined, looking at him with a malicious gleam in his eye.

"No doubt you have been enjoying yourself this year," began Snape languidly. "The Boy Who Lived Again. Your latest stunt must have driven your peers' adoration to astounding heights. ... Tell me, how many school rules have you and your retinue flaunted in my absence?"

"None," said Harry. "Sir. I don't have a retinue."

"Ah, yes. Humble, heroic Potter, who always plays the perfect tune." Snape leaned forward, grabbing Harry's wrist and jerking him down so that they were at eye level. "Harry Potter..." he murmured, "do you understand how very... _lucky_... you... are? Through the strength of your mother's love, through nothing of your own doing, you survived the Killing Curse. Through sheer luck, you have reaped the benefits of a fame better reserved for greater wizards.

The malicious amusement in Snape's eyes turned to anger. "And now," he said, through gritted teeth, "because you are such a symbol of hope, we are each and every one of us obliged to keep you alive. ... After all, Gryffindors need a neat little poster boy to follow, lest they forget why they fight." His face contorted into a snarl. "We pull miracle after miracle to keep your filthy hide alive and your fame compounds upon itself - but you think ..." Snape's voice softened into a whisper. "You think you deserve your fame. Don't you?"

Where had the relief and warmth in Snape's eyes gone? Harry knew he had seen it, knew Snape had been transported by gratitude when the resurrection had worked.

But if he knew it, it was only in memory. Snape's eyes were black and soulless now.

Snape's voice had become soft, taunting. "Tell me now, Potter, just what a marvelous person you think you are..." Snape gave a jerk on his wrist. "Tell me how you think this fame is all your own doing..."

"I don't, sir, I -"

" _Legilimens_!"

Harry lost awareness of his body. An image forced itself into his mind's eye: he and Dudley were chasing a little runt of a kid into an alleyway, the kid panting, looking upwards in terror as he realized he had run into a dead end. Then Dudley was grabbing his frail shoulders and throwing him to the floor, and Harry was kicking the kid, once, twice in the ribs, and the kid was crying... "Ha! Little wimp!" shouted Dudley, his voice distorted by the memory, as if he were shouting through water. And Harry, in the memory, was laughing along...

The foreign presence withdrew sharply from his mind. Harry gasped into consciousness; he had collapsed onto the dungeon floor, and his skin was slick with sweat.

"I thought so," Snape breathed, standing now, staring at Harry from across the desk. "Get up, Potter, get up."

Taking a deep breath, Harry pushed himself back onto his feet and faced Snape from across the table. The now familiar mix of resignation and betrayal twisted his gut. "Why did you do that, sir," he spat.

Snape's face was twisted in absolute loathing. "Your father," he said quietly, "was an empty, worthless shell of a person, and all that vapid space he filled with arrogance and cruelty. He was a _swine_." Snape's voice had dropped to a whisper. "And I, never in all my imagination, would have believed it possible, but you are worse."

Harry would have argued, but the vicious hatred in Snape's eyes left no room for speech. Slowly, Snape straightened, the hatred receding, replaced with callousness.

"Unfortunately," he said coldly, "Dumbledore has deemed it necessary that you keep some secrets in that feeble brain of yours. Therefore, I shall be endeavouring to teach you Occlumency. Should you in your stupidity fail to learn it in the next three months, it shall be no concern of mine. However, I have given my word to try."

"Only three months?" said Harry. It normally took far longer.

"Yes," said Snape, a cruel smile curling his lips. "He wishes to speak to you before he dies, you see."

A/N:

Thank you all for reading! Comments/feedback/questions are always welcome.


	3. Flora

Since Harry's Occlumency lessons started, every single one of his grades plummeted. Transfiguration veered from a borderline Acceptable to a neat Dreadful. Arithmancy went from a Poor to a Troll. In fact, of all his subjects, Herbology was the only one to remain at Acceptable.

And that was because it was so easy to cheat on Sprout's tests.

Harry watched the nosedive with placid acceptance. Dudley and his friends had never cared about grades, so why should Harry? Occlumency was far more important: Dumbledore's secrets might finally allow him to contribute to the war.

And as for Dumbledore's death - Harry simply didn't want to think about it.

Yet as far as Occlumency went, _trying_ was not making any difference in Harry's lack of success: he just could not understand the concept, to Snape's endless displeasure.

"You would serve your symbolic purpose just as well if I removed your brain from your thick little skull," said Snape one day. "You would no longer have any need for Occlumency, then." A cruel smile. "Just say the word. I'll do it, and the world would lose nothing..."

Harry had one weapon against Snape. He had rapidly figured out that any memory with a strong feeling of hope caused Snape to recoil as if stung. Why, Harry didn't know, but the lessons soon devolved into Harry grabbing every hopeful memory he could - the resurrection, the thought of peace, the anticipation of a nice birthday present - and shoving it at Snape, while Snape, in turn, tried to gouge up every dark secret of Harry's childhood. Harry's mind became a playground for their bickering, and headaches plagued him constantly.

But Harry soon had a brilliant idea for an alternate approach. Harry brewed himself a delayed-vomiting potion, got himself a medical note from the Infirmary, and ditched all of his classes for a week to sequester himself in the Slytherin potions room.

It was enjoyable and relaxing. Someone stole some of his ingredients when Harry wasn't paying attention, but he simply nudged his bag closer to his feet and dove right back into his work. The days flew by: Harry experimented, failed, and tried again, and soon enough he had a growing row of mind-altering potions at his workstation, each placed right next to its antidote.

Yet one night, when Harry was zoned into his potion, shoving beetles and slugs into the mix, a shriek pierced the air. Harry startled, thinking it oddly incongruous with the peaceful murmur of the lake. He was brewing - screaming had no place in the world when he was brewing.

Harry sighed. He dumped in an approximate quart of fluxweed essence to stabilize his brew - that was probably about right - and left his cauldron to investigate.

He had gone deep into the Slytherin dungeons when he heard voices. He recognized Flora's words echoing around the corridors, and Harry slunk closer, following the sound.

"That was good, Hess," murmured Flora somewhere in the distance, warm and encouraging. "That was nearly perfect. You're getting better -"

A broken sob from Hestia. "I don't want to do this. I want to stop. I don't care what Aunt and Uncle say -"

Disturbed, Harry slunk closer, keeping to the walls.

"Remember why we're doing this, sis," said Flora warmly. "If you can cast the Cruciatus on me, then you have the proper mindset to cast the Cruciatus on _anyone_ -"

"I don't want to!" shrieked Hestia.

"Ssh, ssh." Flora's voice was calm and soothing. "Don't be so loud; someone will hear us. Ssh." Harry was just outside the door;he could hear the rustle of cloth. Flora might be drawing her sister into an embrace. "Remember what Aunt Alecto said," she murmured. "The ability to cast the Cruciatus and the Killing Curse will make you stand out from everyone else. If you can do this, they'll be so happy to have you - you'll rise through the ranks in no time. You want that." A pause. "I know you do."

"Why can't we just," said Hestia brokenly, "kidnap a firstie Gryffindor? I can cast the Cruciatus on them..."

"And then what? They'd run off to McGonagall."

Silence.

"The Cruciatus was practically made for interrogations," said Flora passionately. "It's a wonderful spell. You'll see."

Hestia's voice cracked. "But not against you."

Flora sighed; there was another rustle as she seemed to draw away from the embrace. "Theo's been dabbling in Necromancy. He gave me a primer on corpse animation, the other day."

"Theo?" whispered Hestia.

"Yeah. And Catherine lent us her book on slavery spells, remember? And Cassius, with all the venom he's been selling everyone, I'm sure he's involved in Knockturn Alley. He hasn't been sharing his secrets, but that's all the worse - we don't know how good he is. But I think he's in pretty deep."

Hestia was taking deep breaths.

"I don't want you to fall behind," said Flora quietly. "Just give it another try. I won't hold this against you, sis! I'm _asking_ you to do it. I'll be proud of you."

"Flora -"

"Come on," said Flora, "raise your wand. And silence me this time, just in case."

No response.

"I believe in you, Hess," said Flora softly. "Go on."

" _Silencio._ _"_ A long, heavy pause; Harry started to believe Hestia wouldn't do it. Then she spoke, her voice broken and feeble. " _Crucio._ _"_

Harry's muscles burned with the urge to run into the classroom and stop them, no matter what it took; he gripped the dungeon walls hard, biting sharply down on his cheek, willing himself to stay still.

Flora and Hestia despised him now. If he told them to stop, they'd laugh him off. If he tried to disarm them, they'd knock him flat in a duel. It made no sense to go in, and with this mantra burning in his head, Harry turned and sprinted. His legs ached fiercely; he was doubled over and panting when he rushed into McGonagall's office, but he managed between breaths to tell her what had happened. He could only hope, as she vanished down the stairs, that she would do the right thing.

* * *

Harry wasn't certain she had.

Harry wasn't certain _he_ had done the right thing in telling her. But what else, he thought desperately, could he have done?

In Charms the next day, Hestia sat in her normal seat, but Flora was on the opposite side of the room, staring pointedly at the wall. When Flitwick's lecture ended and the class broke into groups for practicals, Harry's eyes were latched on Hestia as she approached her sister nervously, asking to partner up, as they always did.

"Why should I," said Flora. Her entire body was tense, her expression cold as ice. Harry couldn't hear anything across the room, but he could lipread. "You can't keep a secret. When things get rough, you run off to the _Headmistress._ _"_

Hestia protested, but Hestia's back was to him; Harry could not see the words.

" _I trusted you!_ " snarled Flora, before turning sharply back to the wall. "Shove off."

A tap on Harry's shoulder made him jerk backwards.

It ws Hermione. "Come on, Harry," she said, pointing somewhere behind her. "Ron and I got a good spot."

"Start without me," he said, and wove hurriedly through the desks to the Slytherin side of the classroom, coming abruptly face to face with Hestia.

She looked up, her eyes hurt and bewildered, but only for a moment. Then her expression shuttered off and her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Can I help you?"

"I need a partner," said Harry. "The Gryffindors - they don't want to work with me at the moment. Do you want to..."

Hestia blinked, and for a moment she seemed to be on the verge of accepting. They'd partnered in Arithmancy a couple years back, and she and Harry had sometimes traded jokes over the bulk owl orders. Maybe she would... maybe...

"No, thank you," she said coolly, brushing past him.

Harry watched her go, his heart sinking. He was at a loss.

And as the weeks went on, the Slytherins' treatment only grew worse. Half the time now, when Harry had to shove his way through a crowd, a kick to the shins sent him sprawling. Once, someone had stolen his wand while he was in the shower, and it was only days later that Filch informed him he'd found it shoved into the back of a broom closet. Harry could never pin down exactly who was behind these things, and that was intended. The Slytherins hated his guts, but none of them wanted to single themself out as the enemy of the newly-revived Boy Who Lived.

And then Draco took the mantle upon himself, striding forward, jeering where the others watched silently.

"Looking forward to Christmas with the Muggles, Potter?" he sneered. "You'll be bustling around like a house-elf, won't you, stringing the lights, _dragging_ the tree _through the house_ and _shoving_ it to prop it up... but you like that sort of thing, don't you?"

Daphne was suppressing a smirk. Aston, Theo, and Blaise laughed unabashedly. Harry was the only Muggle-raised student in Slytherin, but before they had always been accepting... Harry turned away, annoyed, but he still saw their jeers in his mind's eye.

Through all this, Tracey Davis was the only Slytherin to remain friendly. She was the one who passed him test answers from the common room or study-guides from the upper years; without her aid, Harry might actually have been expelled from Hogwarts for failing everything.

But when it came to analyzing Slytherin dynamics, Tracey was clueless. She offered to arrange a meeting with Pansy instead, and so, late one night, the three of them met in a dead-end corridor in the dungeons. Harry wanted to see if there was any way back into the fold.

"Sorry I'm late, Harry," said Pansy, glancing dismissively at Tracey as if she were a statue. "Big commotion in the common room. Draco was trying to Floo home for a bit, like he's been doing, and he burned himself. I helped take him to the Infirmary."

Harry stared. "Burned himself? _"_

"Yeah..." Pansy winced. "He was talking to Daphne while he was throwing the Floo powder in. It didn't take, and he wasn't looking - he stepped right into the hot fire." Harry felt a twinge of vindictive amusement; he glanced away, trying to hide it, but he couldn't really feel guilty.

But after a couple more seconds to gather herself, Pansy launched into the subject at hand. "You have no clue why everyone hates you, do you?" she said, summoning a saccharine smile. "Poor Harry. You know, Tracey's been doing the exact same as you for years: Mouthing off on our way of life... Acting like she knows something we all don't."

"That's because I do," said Tracey with a half-laugh. "You all are in denial about which way the world's going. Anyone with eyes can see that the Muggle world is rising, and so Muggleborns will gain power. Fighting against the tide of the world is the most un-Slytherin -"

Pansy didn't even look at Tracey. "See what I mean?" she said to Harry, rolling her eyes and making an exaggerated pantomime of babbling endlessly.

"Yet everyone hates me and doesn't mind her," said Harry.

"Right. Because she's a Davis. A nobody." Pansy smiled smugly, ignoring Tracey completely as she spoke. "No one cares about her. She can start worshipping Helena Hufflepuff as the goddess of the world, and we wouldn't give a damn, because she matters so little. It's something else, though, if _you -_ _"_ Pansy trailed a finger down Harry's chest - "the Boy Who Lived, the Heir of Slytherin, go off the rails. You see, Harry, you're supposed to represent us. But if you start acting like a Gryffindor, you're insulting our very way of life! The best of House Slytherin, defecting to Gryffindor!"

Pansy's lips twisted; she removed her finger from Harry's chest. "I mean, I get why you're doing it."

Harry's eyes widened. "You do?"

Pansy nodded. "Slytherin House doesn't have any protection anymore. We can't go to the Board of Governors if McGonagall tries to expel us. We can't use our parents' Ministry influence anymore, either. We're all alone, all alone, in the den of the Gryffindors. So you've done the proper thing. You've decided to suck up to them."

Harry's heart grew cold. "That's not what this is about - haven't you been _listening?_ _"_

Pansy didn't seem to hear him. She sighed dramatically, crossing her arms. "But the thing is, Harry, not all of us are famous like you are. Not all of us can suck up to them. We all thought you'd protect us. But you've gone and done the complete opposite and left us exposed, and now everything's going bad." She leaned forward. "I've heard rumors that the Aurors are planning to search our dorms."

"So what am I supposed to do?" said Harry sharply. "Help you guys hide your Dark Arts?"

"Yeah."

Harry would not.

And so nothing changed. Draco got bolder and bolder with his harrassment, but Harry thought he could read into it now. The Slytherins felt betrayed and powerless, and Harry began to notice that they had begun to tone down their bullying of others, afraid of the Aurors' retribution.

But that pent-up energy they now focused entirely on him, and when they knew they could get away with it, they were vicious. Draco regularly sent charms and curses into the side of Harry's cauldron during Potions. Lately, he wasn't even bothering to hide it: the entire class saw as he sent a bright blue Freezing Charm across the room, snuffing the flames of Harry's cauldron.

And before Harry could do a single thing to reverse the damage, Snape was sweeping up to him, a sneer etched onto his face. "Potter. Tell me which step on the board indicates that you should turn off the heat."

"Sir, Draco -"

" _Draco,_ _"_ said Snape, leaning forward, "has done nothing worth reproach." A pause. "Your potion is a failure. _Evanesco._ _"_

 _Evanesco._ And Harry was left sitting stupidly behind an empty cauldron as Snape swept over to Draco's desk. "Excellent work," Snape paused delicately, "on your potion. Five points to Slytherin."

Harry did not want to hate his House. They were his friends; they were the only community he'd ever known.

Draco and Snape, on the other hand... if they were so willing to volunteer, Harry would despise them with every ounce of his being. And Harry was still tense with anger as he stalked into Occlumency lessons that evening, slamming ten potions vials onto Snape's desk, one by one.

Snape looked up sharply. "What is this, Potter?"

Harry slid down into his chair, jutting his chin in the air. "They're mind-altering potions. _Sir_."

Snape had been examining a vial; he set it down with a thud. "What is the meaning of this?"

Harry didn't reply, only plucked the vial from Snape's hands and shifted in his chair, pressing himself further down. "I thought I'd try something new. _Sir._ Your methods weren't working. _Sir._ Literally anything would be an improvement. _Sir._ "

"Detention tomorrow evening," said Snape. "Your arrogance is getting worse, Potter... clearly the resurrection did you no favors. You think you own Death, you think you own the world."

Harry glared at Snape with loathing. _I hate you,_ he thought viciously, then brought the first potion to his lips and tipped it back.

It was horribly salty. Nothing happened for a while, while Snape, well aware of the side effects, stared at him in disbelief. Then a tingle spread down his extremities. Harry tipped his head back, resting it on the back of the chair, and felt himself go absolutely limp.

Harry was floating; he felt vaguely aware of the press of the chair and the uncomfortable crane of his neck, but he was far more interested in his mind. Harry was floating in slippery, watery thoughts; His anger at Snape melted away, replaced by odd fascination and drifting, mild complacency.

It seemed to be a while before Snape finally came over and pried his eyelids open. " _Legilimens,_ _"_ he said.

Harry was aware of the mental intrusion, but Snape couldn't latch onto any concrete memory. For a brief second, a scene of a birthday with Dudley flooded into view, then slipped away like a fish. Harry couldn't retrieve it, though he tried; Snape couldn't either, and there was a long procession of meaningless snippets of scenes. Harry could sense Snape's growing frustration; finally he withdrew, releasing Harry's eyelids, letting Harry's head hit the back of the chair with a thud.

He'd done it, Harry thought triumphantly. He'd learned Occlumency.

"How lazy of you, Potter," said Snape, somewhere in the distance. "It is beneath your time to learn Occlumency the proper way - No, the minute you think you can get away with it, you take every shortcut you can. Never in your life will you lift a finger more than you must: it is always the bare minimum for you..."

He felt Snape pressing the antidote roughly to his mouth, as if trying to choke him with the liquid. But enough of it trickled down the right pipe, and in a minute, Harry's thoughts snapped back into place and he could move once more. He doubled over in a coughing fit.

* * *

After that, Harry tried several other mind-altering potions, each wild in their own ways - making Harry's thoughts sluggish, or jittery, or scrambled together, with equally wild side effects - but Snape proved capable of navigating his mind despite it. It was the apathetic slipperiness that was key.

And so, in between hating Draco and dodging the Slytherins, Harry focused on replicating that state of mind without the drug. Snape's constant demands that he _clear his mind_ had not been helpful at all, but now, he had a goal to work towards. Harry meditated during History, between classes, and even sometimes while eating.

"Is he going mad?" asked Ron one day. The three of them were out on the grounds, and Harry had lain back and was staring at the sky, letting his thoughts turn to jelly.

Hermione was hesitating. "Well, doesn't Luna do this sometimes, too? I wouldn't call her mad... per se..."

And Occlumency lessons were getting easier and easier. Snape tried to grasp at Harry's most embarassing memories, but it was like reaching a hand into a bucket of slimy, slippery eels: Snape couldn't grab _any_ of them, much less the specific one he wanted. Harry was triumphant, and finally, two weeks before Christmas, Snape ended the lessons.

In mid-December, the summons from Dumbledore arrived. Harry had been engulfed in Christmas cheer and spirit, but it all vanished the moment he saw Dumbledore.

Dumbledore sat at the Headmaster's desk, propped up in his chair like a stiffening corpse. His beard was patched and thin, his skin sagging, his left hand mummified; only his eyes seemed alive, twinkling with light.

Oh, God. _Dumbledore is dying._ Harry had heard the words but never felt their impact until now.

Harry eased the door closed very slowly behind him, as if afraid to disturb Dumbledore's last rest. Dumbledore gave him a small smile. "It's a beautiful day, Harry," he said, his voice sure and strong as ever, "and I'm sure you're looking forward to the feast in a few days. My favorite part has always been the pumpkin pie."

Harry wasn't sure how to react. He felt suddenly very aware of his arms and legs, how fluid and mobile they were, in contrast to Dumbledore's. He was a stuffed puppet in stiff robes, ready to keel over at any moment.

"Come, have a seat," said Dumbledore gently. As Harry answered Dumbledore's inquiries on Hogwarts life, he felt an odd sense of detached disbelief. He didn't know how their side would survive without Dumbledore.

And when Dumbledore told Harry about Trelawney's first prophecy, Harry simply stared and blinked, distantly thinking that he would figure it out later.

"Though I am more than willing to embark upon the next great adventure, the timing of my departure will not be ideal," said Dumbledore. He had been gazing into the distance, but now his bright blue eyes focused on Harry. "I shall try to make my passing as ambiguous as possible: Voldemort will not initially be certain whether I have succumbed to his curse, or whether I have merely withdrawn to recuperate. But as time goes on and I do not reappear, he will grow bold. I think it is somewhat inevitable, Harry, that he will attack Hogwarts before the year is over."

That last statement was uttered in the same calm, steady tone of voice, and it took Harry a second to grasp Dumbledore's meaning. He felt a spike of disbelieving anxiety. "What do we do?" Surely Dumbledore had an answer; he had to...

"Alas," said Dumbledore, with a small sigh. "That is the tricky part. As for your role in the battle, however, one thing is very important."

"What is it, sir?"

Harry hung on Dumbledore's every word. Dumbledore's gaze was searching as he spoke. "If Voldemort attacks, it is many of the students may stay behind to defend. Depending on the circumstances, which as of now I cannot guess, Severus may ask you to withdraw from the castle entirely before the battle starts."

Harry was only confused.

Dumbledore's gaze went to Harry's scar. "After your resurrection, everything changed," said Dumbledore gently. "You have told me that you are no longer experiencing any pain, you can no longer speak Parseltongue, and your scar has gone inert."

"Right, sir." But what did that have to do with anything?

A phantom of pain flickered over Dumbledore's face, the first sign he gave of his crippling weakness. "Forgive me if I do not have the strength to tell you everything, Harry," Dumbledore said heavily. "I simply ask for your word that you will obey Severus's orders regarding the battle - even if it means abandoning your peers - even if he is not there, during the battle itself, to enforce his wishes."

But none of this made any sense. Harry's role was to be a symbol of defiance. Now that Voldemort owned the Ministry, Hogwarts was the last bastion of that defiance. In order to defend Hogwarts successfully, Harry should be there, fighting among the students. How could he turn tail and run, when so much would be at stake? He was missing something -

"Your word, Harry," prompted Dumbledore gently, interrupting his thoughts.

"I promise, sir."

Whatever that meant. Looking at Dumbledore's old, lined, kind face for the last time, Harry felt a surge of guilt.

If the promise didn't start making more sense between now and the battle, Harry would break it.

* * *

All throughout Christmas, Harry was distracted. He got forty presents; Dudley got forty presents. His and his brother's were identical, as always, because if Aunt got one of them a certain gift, she never wanted the other to feel left out. Dudley was nearly salivating over a new video game console; he got angry and threw it out the window the day after.

All this Harry watched with a certain sense of detachment as he tried to come to terms with the prophecy. It promised that Harry had a power the Dark Lord knew not; yet, though Voldemort believed in it fully, the prophecy was not even guaranteed to be true. That meant Voldemort might be out for Harry's blood, expending resources and energy as if Harry were a real threat, when Harry might not even have any hidden power at all.

And that was the bloody magical world for you, thought Harry, his thoughts suddenly crazed and wild. When had _any_ problem in the Wizarding World ever been bite-sized? Everything was always blown to comical proportions, and that was just the way it had been, ever since his first year. This prophecy of doom and gloom was just more of the same insanity, and dealing with this new destiny was just so impossible that Harry began to laugh.

It was funny. The greatest Dark Wizard in history had it out for him, a failing fifth-year student, and he could do absolutely nothing...

Not about this, and not about his House's turn to darkness. His thoughts took a sombre turn.

But when Harry, drunk on Muggle luxury and cheer, returned to Hogwarts, he discovered a castle gearing up for war. Instead of patrolling, the Order Aurors now went from statue to statue, tapping them with their wands, making sure the enchantments were in order. Historic tapestries were being bundled and put away, lest they be caught in the crossfire. The class schedule was scrapped entirely, and every day, the upper years of each House were gathered for large Defense classes held in the Great Hall, the grounds, or the Quidditch pitch.

Behold the Wizarding World, thought Harry, his thoughts wild once more. His school had become an independent nation, then a military camp... he shouldn't have expected anything less.

* * *

A/N: Harry doesn't really wonder about things. He feels out of his depth when it comes to the Wizarding World, he thinks very little of his abilities, and is just trying to go with the (incomprehensible) flow. His initial agreement with his relatives that wizards are freaks may have had something to do with this.

So Harry has not wondered about Snape's absence, Draco's letters, etc, as much as canon!Harry might have. Instead, the things he cannot influence he tries to normalize and dismiss - including the prophecy.

Also, I'm interested to hear what chapter lengths are most convenient for you guys.


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